


High and sweet

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Kittie And Gem Stories [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Cliffhanger, Crack, Frustrated John Watson, Halloween, Lots of sweets, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, No Plot/Plotless, Random & Short, Ridiculous, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting, Sherlock is high...kind of, Short, Short & Sweet, Silly, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 02:28:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12571708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: Opening the door quietly, John was met with a sea of destruction unlike anything he had seen outside of the time Moriarty had bombed Baker Street, “Sherlock?” John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why is the sofa upside down?”Sherlock jumped from the desk, that he was precariously standing on, to the sofa with a wide and slightly manic grin, his right arm curled around a large salad bowl filled with sweets, which he rifled through with gusto, knocking a few of them to the floor in his haste to find whatever it was he was searching for.“John! You’re back,” he exclaimed loudly, balancing as he walked, bare foot, across the underside of the overturned sofa. Sherlock’s mouth was faintly smudged with chocolate, and his curls were wild and mussed. “I’d get off the floor if I were you, John. It’s lava! First it was the sea, then it was snow, but now it’s most definitely lava, and you’re standing in it!”





	High and sweet

**Author's Note:**

> We don't even know what this is.  
> We wrote it a while ago - 2015 to be exact - and we wanted to put something up for Halloween, so...here you go!
> 
> There was no plot to this, no real path it was going, we just started writing and saw where it went.  
> It was left unfinished but has been edited to be a cliffhanger instead, just incase we do want to finish it later.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Ah, John, you’re back, thank _God_ ,” Mrs Hudson said as soon as John stepped in from the pavement, one of her hands curling around his wrist whilst she pointed up the stairs with the other, her brow furrowed in motherly annoyance. “Could you be a dear and fetch the bowl of sweets from Sherlock for me? He’s taken them again. It’s the _sixth_ time he’s done so and I cannot keep walking up and down those _bleedin’_ steps, and chasing him around the room—It’s playing havoc with my hip, you see.”

There was a crash and a rumble from upstairs and Mrs Hudson sighed, shaking her head with a tut and mumbling about the state of the living room last time she had popped up. With a sigh and a nod, assuring Mrs Hudson that he’d deal with it, John frowned, closed the black door behind him and walked up the stairs, listening to the loud thuds and bangs getting louder as he got closer to his flat. It sounded as if Sherlock was running laps as well as knocking over everything in his path. It wasn’t the most surprising of noises, nor would it be the most surprising of sights to see. Nothing was exactly very surprising when you lived with Sherlock Holmes.

Opening the door quietly, John was met with a sea of destruction unlike anything he had seen outside of the time Moriarty had bombed Baker Street, “Sherlock?” John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why is the sofa upside down?”

Sherlock jumped from the desk, that he was precariously standing on, to the sofa with a wide and slightly manic grin, his right arm curled around a large salad bowl filled with sweets, which he rifled through with gusto, knocking a few of them to the floor in his haste to find whatever it was he was searching for.

“John! You’re back,” he exclaimed loudly, balancing as he walked, bare foot, across the underside of the overturned sofa. Sherlock’s mouth was faintly smudged with chocolate, and his curls were wild and mussed. “I’d get off the floor if I were you, John. It’s _lava_! First it was the sea, then it was snow, but now it’s most definitely lava, and you’re _standing_ in it!”

“The floor is—Sherlock? Are you on drugs?” John asked, walking over to him whilst trying to avoid the various hazards on the floor, wincing when he stood on a fork he found had been stabbed into a melon. “ _Come here_!”

Sherlock waited for him to get a little closer before he leaped back upon the desk, then over onto his upturned chair, and finally stepped along the coffee table, “No I am _not_ on drugs, John,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes and then popping a toffee into his mouth, lifting one shoulder thoughtfully. “Well, not as such. I didn’t mean it, you understand—The floor is _still_ lava, John! Get up onto something! You’re just as bad as Mrs Hudson.”

“If I stand on my chair, can we have a proper conversation? One that doesn’t involve you swinging around the room like a bloody drunk gibbon?” John grumbled, climbing onto his chair and carefully sitting his arse on the back. “There, happy? No more standing in lava.”

“ _Yes_!” Sherlock beamed and swayed dangerously toward John, his pupils hugely dilated. “Do you like my costume, John? I made it with you in mind. I’m dressed as I would be if I were a doctor—a highly educated and experienced doctor!” His so-called ‘costume’ consisted of jeans, a black t-shirt with some sort of band logo slapped across it, a dark navy shirt over the top of it, which was only buttoned in the middle, a black suit jacket, and a leather coat that John was sure he’d never seen before. Had he gone out to buy them, or had Sherlock secretly held these garments in his wardrobe all this time?

“Of course. It’s very…accurate,” John smiled softly. “Now, how many of those sweets have you eaten? You’re absolutely off your tits on the sugar…”

“This is the sixth bowl, correct? So I’ve had about a third from each bowl, which equals to at least two thousand, five hundred… or somewhere there abouts, seeing as there are different sweets in all different sizes, meaning I could have had more of one than the other…what was my point again? _Ah_! Yes, I’ve had about a third from each bowl; except this one, this one I’m going to _finish_ ,” Sherlock grinned and eyed John unblinkingly, throwing two sweets at him. “Here, you can have some, John, because I like you. Mrs Hudson gets none. The children dressed up as stupid, non-existent monsters get none, and Mycroft gets none—he’d only eat them all himself, like always, the _fat lout_.”

The sweets, two sugary Haribo keys, hit John between his brows and he flinched, and then rubbed tiredly at his eyes. No wonder the texts he had received, during yet another date, had been so chaotic and jumbled and numerous. John had left the date with his lovely hopefully-soon-to-be-girlfriend, for this? When would he learn?

“Sherlock, you’re going to be _sick_ if you eat anymore. Why don’t we put them in the cupboard and we don’t tell Mrs Hudson, Mycroft or the monster children where they are, and we’ll eat them tomorrow? Or the next day?” he coaxed, unable to resist talking to Sherlock in a patronising, mocking and annoyed tone. “Wouldn’t that be better?”

“ _No_!” Sherlock scowled and pushed a handful of skittles into his mouth, leaping back to the sofa. He craned his neck to look out the window when some more children knocked on the front door and cackled and chewed, listening out knowingly for when Mrs Hudson began shouting up to him to bring the sweets back down. Sherlock grinned mischievously and only stuffed more into his cheeks, refusing to answer her and refusing to give the bowl back.

“Sherlock, give me the _bloody_ sweets!” John growled after the fourth time of Mrs Hudson shouting up at them, and moved to climb across the river of ‘lava’ between their chairs, vaulting over the table in an attempt to grab Sherlock’s leather jacket before the man deftly dodged his swiping hand. “ _Stop_ moving so quick you little shit!” When John finally reached and cornered Sherlock, he grabbed Sherlock’s hands, steadying them as they balanced atop the upended sofa. “Let me have them.”

“Those little brats don’t deserve them, John!” Sherlock told him as he struggled to get away from him, shifting nimbly along the sofa, his eyes rapidly flitting all around the room and back. “ _No one_ does, but me! _I_ do _all_ the work, _all_ of the time! _I_ catch the murderers and the robbers and the rapists and the paedophiles, so _I_ deserve a huge bowl of sweets for my troubles! I _never_ get anything I want!”

“All right, look, I understand that…sort of…but these sweets aren’t for you. If you wanted sweets, then you just had to ask, I’m sure Mrs Hudson would buy some just for you, and I have no problem with adding them onto the shopping list and giving them to you when you’ve been…when you’ve caught the ‘bad men,’ okay? – You can have anything you please, if you just _ask_! _Anything_ at all! So why don’t you give me the bowl now, and I’ll go out especially and get you some of your very own, hm?” John made sure to shoot him a look, which hopefully brokered no argument, and quickly followed after Sherlock as he made a dash across the disordered living room.

Sherlock grunted as he jumped to wobble dangerously on one of the kitchen chairs, which had apparently been moved to complete the circuit in the living room, and turned slightly to John, “Anything?” he repeated after a moment, arching his eyebrow and looking him over with an unfurling smirk. “Anything at all? _Really_? Truly? – No take backs!”

“No take backs,” John promised, moving back to his chair where he could comfortably reach for Sherlock. “Anything at all. Just _give_ me the bowl.”

“A kiss then,” Sherlock said as he held the bowl out of John’s reach, his tongue a mix of colours as he laughed. “ _No_! _Three_ kisses!”

“Kisses?” John asked with a frown. “Erm… what type of kisses? Just… like a few pecks? A, um, friend kiss sort of…sort of thing?”

“ _French_ kisses.” Sherlock told him and moved back to the sofa to peer out the window with a giggle as the children left. “ _Ha_! Yeah, _bugger off_ you little spoilt imps! I know your parents and they’re just as annoying and _boring_ and undeserving as you are!”

John sniggered under his breath and rubbed his face. Today was in the top 10 of weirdest days whilst living at Baker St. Number five at least. John inhaled deeply and looked over at the mad, dishevelled detective, choosing to play along, as that was the only way John could see to getting the sweets and stopping the crazy chase around the living room.

“Fine, three kisses it is, _but_ you have to give me the sweets and sit down. And let me make you some toast or something. We need something to cut through the sugar rushing through your veins.”

“It’s _not_ the sugar,” Sherlock told him as he popped another toffee into his mouth, pushing it to his cheek as he continued. “You’re a _doctor_ , you should know that a sugar high is an unproven popular belief that consumption of a mass amount of sugar can lead to temporary hyperactivity—And anyway, it’s meant to be children that are ‘affected,’ I am _not_ a child! Therefore, I shall eat as much sugar as I please! I _deserve_ it!”

“ _Fine_. Put down the bowl and tell me what you’ve taken then you _dickhead_ ,” John growled, completely losing his patience. “This _isn’t_ you. You don’t run around on the furniture and call children ‘imps’. If you want your kisses, you need to tell me and give those back to Mrs Hudson.”

Sherlock huffed and ate another handful of skittles, “It was a minor accident,” he murmured as he chewed. “My experiment didn’t work out as I had planned. In fact, the result was _completely_ unforeseen. There was a small explosion and the resulting fumes made me _extremely_ high!” Sherlock grinned widely and then jostled the bowl, rustling the sweets inside and pawing through them to find some he was interested in. “I opened the window to rid the room of it all but it was too late. And for some reason, one of the side effects to the chemical airborne high was an uncontrollable need for _sugar_. So I rushed downstairs and borrowed the sweets that Mrs Hudson was giving to snotty nosed children!”

“ _Jesus_!” John rushed at Sherlock, totally ignoring the detective’s pleas about the floor still being lava again. “You _utter twat_! Why didn’t you _tell_ me? How are you feeling? How’s the vision? Hearing?”

“But John! John, the _floor_! You’ll be destroyed, John, do you know what happens when lava meets flesh and bone?” Sherlock wailed and grappled for him, yanking him up onto the sofa but loosing his grip on the bowl in the process. It fell with a loud thud, scattering the rest of the sweets across the floor, and Sherlock gasped and gestured to it. “ _Now_ look what you’ve made me do!”

John couldn’t help but start to laugh, his high-pitched chuckle echoed around the flat and soon he was doubled over, his hands on his stomach as he laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks, “ _Christ_ Sherlock, you… you’re _insane_. You’re bloody mad!”

“No, I’m not! I’m just high,” Sherlock informed him with a deep-set frown before his mouth twitched and he sniggered and snorted with laughter himself, finding John’s amusement contagious. He eyed John up close; his pupils still dilated, and then looked up and aside as Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway.

“John, _really_ ,” she scoffed softly, making her way over to collect the sweets from the floor. “Don’t encourage his behaviour.”

“Sorry,” John grumbled. “Sherlock, help me and Mrs H pick up your mess. Come on. Save the sweets from the lava.” John bent over and began picking them up, depositing them back into the bowl before craning his head and realising that Sherlock was just standing, seemingly lost in his own world, as he stared at John’s backside. John frowned and snapped his fingers. “ _Sherlock_! I was talking to you!”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and then shifted his focus to them both with a look of annoyance, “You’re both lucky it seems to be turning into sand now,” he huffed, lunging for the sweets, collecting an armful and leaping away when Mrs Hudson reached for him. “ _No_!”

“ _Honestly_ , Sherlock!” she reprimanded. “What is _wrong_ with you?”

“I’m _high_ , Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed and then ate a sweet with its wrapper still on. “And these are _mine_!”

“Sherlock!” John growled and pounced on his friend, hooking his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth in an attempt to fish out the plastic wrapper. “You’re going to bloody choke! Pissing hell, come here… _Ow_! _Don’t_ bite me, you arse!”

Sherlock glared at him, nudged the sweet into his cheek, and pressed his tongue up against John’s fingers to push them out. However he paused as he did so and blinked, suddenly sucking on them instead with a thoughtful expression. The suction was gentle and slow at first, and then got more eager as Sherlock became confident and enthusiastic by what he was doing. Mrs Hudson cleared her throat awkwardly with a flicker of a grin, and then took the sweets from Sherlock’s arm whilst he was distracted, collecting the rest and leaving the room with a fond shake of her head.

John kept his fingers deep in Sherlock’s mouth and against his rubbing tongue, simply blinking silently for a few long moments, until he pulled himself together and pulled his hand away, “You… Do you want toast? I think we ha-have Jam. Or butter. Or marmite…” John rambled, shaken by the intimate nature of Sherlock’s action. He stood up and all but sprinted into the kitchen, opening doors and cupboards seemingly at random before placing his hands on the counter and exhaling deeply.

Sherlock followed him, “What about what you promised?” he asked him sulkily, spitting the wrapper clad sweet into his hand.

“You didn’t give me the bowl. You spilled it. Our agreement is null and void,” John insisted, clicking on the kettle and looking down at the sink plughole idly.

“I could go back down and just take the sweets back,” Sherlock told him and then unexpectedly draped over John’s back, his clothed erection prodding hard and insistent into John. “Your fingers tasted like ice cream and chocolate. Did you have ice cream?”

“N-No,” John replied with a hitch in his breath, not exactly sure on what he’d had on his date, as he couldn’t seem to think properly all of a sudden. He swallowed the saliva that had built in his mouth and impulsively, unthinkingly, continued. “Okay, one kiss now and – _maybe_ \- one more before bed. Then one final one tomorrow if you still want it, when you’re sober. Fair?”

“I don’t know when this will actually wear off,” Sherlock said, dropping his head onto John’s shoulder with a sigh. “I’m not meant to let you know how much I want to kiss you, you know. It’s a _secret_. I’m meant to have deleted it or locked it away or…just ignored it, or whatever. You were never meant to know how much I find you physically and mentally attractive and how _eager_ I am to kiss you—Is that the door?” Sherlock rushed over to the window to peer out at the group of trick-or-treater’s outside with a grumpy huff that misted the glass.

John blinked rapidly, attempting to make sense of the information that Sherlock had just provided. Sherlock had wanted to kiss him, felt that he needed to keep it a secret and lock it away instead of mention it, and found him both physically and mentally attractive. How long had this been going on? John felt his stomach flip excitedly but tried to keep a level head, tried to sort out his own feelings. There had always been something between them, something that flared and snapped and sparked and sizzled, something that made him spend more than he liked to admit smiling at Sherlock whenever he turned his back. There had been times where John, himself, had been eager to kiss the madman, yet it had always passed or he had dismissed it.

He wasn’t afraid of such feelings. Why should he be? Though to moon over your flatmate was always a bit of a hassle, especially when they didn’t seem to be interested in anyone or anything! Yet here they were. Sherlock as high as a kite and, possibly, expressing his feelings for John, feelings he might have had for as long as John had felt the electric between them.

Before he could properly think it through and decide what this meant, what this would do, he walked over to Sherlock and put an arm around his waist, turning him around, “Say those things again.”

“They’re eating _my_ sweets, John,” Sherlock complained as he tore his eyes away from the window and looked at him, smiling suddenly. “How did your date go, John? Was she awful? She _was_ awful. I knew it. I don’t know if I told you –Probably did. You’re better off, _trust_ me.”

John realised that in the state Sherlock was in, where he didn’t seem to have full control over his thought process, he would have to tread lightly, keep his focus and be blunt, so steeled himself, cupped Sherlock’s cheek and turned the man’s face to look at him straight on. “Sherlock? How long have you wanted to kiss me?”

Sherlock stared at him a moment and then gestured vaguely with his hand, “Since you shot that tedious cabbie, John. _Obviously_. It was extremely arousing, you know. I touched myself for the first time in years thinking about it. Still do—and you have a lovely mouth, John. You lick your lips quite a lot, did you know that? It’s distracting. It’s why I get mad at you most days. I can’t think straight when you do that.”

John absently did just that and licked his lips, tilting his head, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought it best not to for a lot of reasons,” Sherlock told him, blowing his fringe from his face, his breath overly sweet and hot as most of it collided with John. “Mostly because I didn’t want to lose you. I’m not good with relationships. It’s why I say I’m married to my work. I thought it would be easier on the both of us if I just kept it quiet—plus, you have no interest in men. I thought there was something once, but you constantly insist we’re not a couple _so_ forcefully, that I shook the thought aside as quickly as it had appeared.”

John did his best impression of a guppy fish before taking a step back, “I… I only said we weren’t a couple because _you_ said you were married to your work! To be honest, after our talk and…and getting to know you a little more, I thought you were Asexual. I _really_ did. I didn’t think you were bothered about anything like that. And that was fine! But then people kept insinuating and assuming and butting their noses in, and it just…pissed me off. I didn’t want you to have to explain your sexual preference to other people, and my sexual preference was always wrongly assumed as well, so I just started saying it to cut them short and make them bugger off! – _Jesus_! All this time… _all_ of this time,” John repeated, suddenly feeling sad at the lost moments, of all the times something might have happened but didn’t, and intuitively grabbed Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down for a long, passionate yet steady kiss, full of promise.

Sherlock moaned loudly in reaction and gripped John’s clothes, tugging him close to press his erection into him once again, “Am I getting all three kisses at once?” he asked against John’s lips with a loose smile and a glazed look.

“You can have as many kisses as you want now, Sherlock,” John promised. “Hundreds, thousands, of kisses. One for every hour of every day, if you want it”. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and bucked his hips against Sherlock’s erection with an instinctive movement that he wasn’t fully aware of until it happened. “However, we’re not going to bed together tonight…we should _really_ not to anything…this isn’t actually right.”

Sherlock pushed his plush, sticky-sweet mouth into John’s again and again and again, despite what John had said, smiling wider with each touch, “You smell nice too,” he told him between kisses, his hands grasping and gripping at John with eagerness. Sherlock pressed and rubbed along John’s body and face affectionately, urging John down to the floor with an enthusiastic groan.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John warned with a chesty growl. “Sherlock, no more than kissing. May-maybe some light petting but no…nothing sexual until you’re _you_ and I know you want this.” John moaned as his cock came into contact with Sherlock’s hip softly, dragging the fabric against his crotch. “ _God_.”

“Mm. I _do_ want this. Wanted this for ages, just not been able to say so. Now I have been. Now I _have you_ ,” Sherlock replied dazedly, rocking against John in delight and then smearing kisses down to suck and nip at John’s throat, grabbing one of John’s hands to relocate it to his own backside. “I’ll just rut against you. You don’t have to do anything.”

“Wait… _Wait_ a bloody sec— _Sherlock_!” John hissed and pushed Sherlock back hard enough for the detective to bang his head against a teapot, which, for some insane reason, had a face painted on it. John took a deep breath and attempted to clear his thoughts. This was rocky territory. Sherlock wasn’t in his right mind and to do anything with him like this would be bad, very, very, very bad. Right? “Okay. Fine. Just…give me a moment here. I don’t want to do anything with you like this. Kissing you is pretty damn ‘not good’ as it is. So…so just tell me what you want instead? I know you want to rut against me but… how? T-talk to me. Do you just want to… you know, go against my arse or my hand or… something? – Not that I’m saying that is a good idea, because it isn’t…on either part, but, um, talking about it is better than…the alternative…I think…”

Sherlock rubbed his head grumpily and then frowned, pointing at John’s torso, “Your stomach,” he told him before he began undressing for no apparent reason, throwing his top behind him and then shimming out of his trousers awkwardly.

“My…stomach?” John frowned and giggled, slightly hysterical, trying to stop the man from stripping. He was out of his mind. He should stop this. All of this. Kissing him was a bad idea and wasting time talking to him wasn’t particularly a good idea either. It might distract him, keep him focused, but the things the man would say would no doubt put a strain on things as much as anything else would. “Why would you want to rub against my belly? Why not my arse? I’ve been told I have a smashing arse— _God_ why am I still talking?” John blushed and then waved an uneasy hand at Sherlock as he struggled to keep him still. “And _stop_ undressing!”

“Oh _yes_ , your arse is lovely, I stare at it daily,” Sherlock told him as he freed his flushed erection and wriggled his underwear off, making John freeze. “But I also find your stomach, more importantly, your _navel_ , extremely arousing. I want to kiss it and bite it and lick it—Everything about you is _dizzyingly_ attractive, but you asked and I answered. I want to rub my penis against your stomach.” Sherlock crawled over to him and tugged at his clothes irritably.

“Right… stomach it is,” John tentatively agreed, pulling off his jumper until he realised what he was doing and stopped. “ _Wait_ , um, no. I mean, why don’t you…t-talk some more? You like talking. A lot. So…do that…” Sherlock, unhappy with John’s halted progress, snubbed his attempt at more conversation and carefully began unbuttoning each button of the shirt John had on. John quickly batted him away, trying to stop him and push him away whilst keeping him close, in his sight, and focused, as he attempted to process the oddness of their evening.

Eventually, Sherlock had his way and John was shirtless and lying in front of the fire between their chairs, with Sherlock quickly writhing and rutting against any part of John he could reach, “Sh-Sherlock! _Sherlock_ , no, wait! Why don’t you— _Stop that_!”

“I should be married to you,” Sherlock said idly as he moved to straddle him, pinning him down with his weight, and dragging the red, wet end of his cock along John’s naked stomach, dipping it into John’s navel with a low chuckle, his eyes raking over every inch of John’s skin. “I’ve thought about it, you know. I think about it every month or so.”

Stilling at his words, John swallowed hard with a dry mouth, “About marrying me?” he murmured softly, suddenly feeling a shocking amount of adoration for his flatmate. He snorted, finding everything more than ridiculous now. “I won’t be your stay at home housekeeper you know. I’m a working wife--” Sherlock’s arse pressed deliciously against his own growing erection, forcing more pre-ejaculate to dribble down his length to get caught in his pubic hair, and John groaned lowly, thoughts instantly jumbled. “Hng! _Sherlock_ , that’s… _God_ that’s good…”

“Mrs Hudson is the housekeeper,” Sherlock told him matter-of-factly as he rocked more, leaning over John with a rough moan, and staring at the way his penis left wet trails of pre-ejaculate over John’s stomach. “Thought about you bending me over the kitchen table, as well. I use my fingers at night and pretend it’s you.”

“ _Christ_ , you do?” John asked, grunting when he failed to stop the instinctual desire to rock his hips, nudging Sherlock up.

“I think about kissing you all over,” Sherlock groaned, fixated on the way his erection twitched once he rocked a little harder and faster, slipping it down to glide wetly along John’s hips. “And about…about your hands on my skin, and in my hair, and gripping my hips— _yes_ , I like when you touch me. No matter how it is you do it. It makes me _instantly_ aroused.” Sherlock bit down on his lip and adjusted his position to grind his backside along John’s crotch, blinding and drowning John in a powerful, wanton need.

“ _Wait_! Wait… _fuck_ …Sherlock…this is bad. You…you’re going to hate me. _I_ hate me. God, I shouldn’t have asked. Now I’m…not going to be able to un-know that you put your fingers in…in…in…” John trailed off in a stammering breath and clenched his eyes closed in mortification. “ _Oh God_. Your hands. _Fuck_. I’m so close already, so… close…”

“Mm? Oh, _yes_ , I do it a lot. Three, sometimes four, times a week. I had to research it up online first, of course,” Sherlock mumbled, neck arched when John peeked up through his lashes. "I wait until you go bed and then I go into the kitchen, strip nude, and use one of the many bottles of medical lubricant that I took from Bart’s.” Sherlock held up his right hand, wriggling and flexing his fingers as he rocked and rubbed against John harder. John couldn’t stop him. Guiltily didn’t want to. “I then coat my fingers, sometimes my entire hand, and slowly stretch myself open—I pretend its you, teasing me.”

John stared at the long, lean, pale digits and then abruptly cried out in pleasure, arching his back and grabbing Sherlock’s hip in a tight grasp as he bucked and shuddered. His cock gave a twitch, thickening unperceptively, before spilling inside his underwear and jeans. The swift orgasm knocked the air from John’s lungs in a long, drawn out groan, which may have been Sherlock’s name, and he had just enough time to curse himself, hope Mrs Hudson wasn’t able to hear him, and pray Sherlock didn’t kick him out before the white noise of satisfaction blanked his mind for several blissful seconds.

He stared up at Sherlock as he quivered, and watched, barely down from his own high, and witnessed Sherlock stiffen with a flutter of his eyes after his erection jerked and pulsed hotly across John’s stomach, ejaculate pooling in his navel and streaking over his chest and up his neck. Sherlock gazed down with heaving breaths, his hips flexing and muscles juddering, and moaned lowly with contentment, looking smug with himself. A smug Sherlock was always a happy Sherlock.

“Mm,” John managed for a moment, his eyelids fluttering closed slightly, feeling heavy. This was perhaps the worst and best Halloween he could remember having. “T’was nice. You were good, _so good_ …and you’re going to kill me once you’re sober. God, please… _please_ don’t kill me. I tried, okay? But…but I…but the feelings you have are more than mutual, yeah? Remember that at least. _Please_?” As John relaxed onto the comfortable rug and began breathing deeply, falling into a cocoon of warmth with Sherlock half sprawled over him, he felt the unmistakeable press of smirking lips to his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> It's up to you whether Sherlock was faking it or not!
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